Take it down right now, or I’ll sue you into the ground!” Brenda shouted, her voice barely cutting through the whine of my power drill.
Brenda had lived next door for two decades and behaved like she owned the entire street. Every hedge, every parked car, every visitor was somehow her business. So when I started building a privacy fence to block her constant staring, she completely lost it.
She called the city. Then the police. Then, somehow, even my mortgage company—claiming I was “damaging the value of the neighborhood.”
Finally, she demanded an official city survey.
“I know exactly where my property line is!” she snapped, shaking her cane at me. “You’re trespassing by three feet. That land is mine.”
I was exhausted. Emotionally drained. I just wanted the noise to stop.
“Fine,” I said. “If the survey proves I’m wrong, I’ll tear the fence down and cover your costs.”
She smiled sharply. “You’ll pay double.”
The surveyor arrived a few days later. He spent hours measuring, rechecking old markers, and placing flags. Brenda watched from her porch the entire time, arms crossed, waiting for her moment of triumph.
When he finished, he walked over to me. His expression wasn’t angry or confused.
It was uncomfortable.
“Well?” Brenda barked, storming toward us. “Tell him to remove it! Tell him he’s stealing my land!”
The surveyor glanced at her house, then pulled out a thick roll of documents. He pointed to a bright pink stake he’d just driven straight into the middle of her paved driveway.
“The fence is fine,” he said calmly. “It’s actually five feet inside your neighbor’s property.”
Her face went red. “Then what is that stake for?”
He hesitated for a moment. “That marks the true property boundary.”
He paused, then added gently, “And if this boundary is correct… your garage isn’t just slightly over the line.”
He looked her straight in the eye.
“Your entire garage is built on your neighbor’s land.”
Brenda froze.
She didn’t yell. She didn’t argue. Her mouth opened, then closed, like her brain couldn’t process the words. The smug confidence she’d worn all morning vanished instantly.
“That can’t be right,” she whispered.
“These are original city markers,” the surveyor replied. “They’ve been here since the subdivision was created.”
He packed his equipment, gave me a brief nod, and left us standing in silence.
That neon stake looked small, but it carried enormous consequences.
Brenda stared at it, then at her garage, then at me. The anger was gone. What replaced it was something new—fear.
Without another word, she turned and walked back into her house. The screen door slammed behind her, echoing through the quiet street.
I didn’t feel victorious. I just felt unsettled. All I wanted was privacy—not my neighbor’s garage.
The next few days were strangely silent. No shouting. No calls. Curtains stayed closed. The entire block felt tense, like it was waiting for something to explode.
I finished the fence, but the satisfaction was gone. Every time I looked at her garage, now technically on my land, my stomach twisted.
Then the letter arrived.
A law firm envelope. Thick. Official.
Brenda was suing me.
